You are here: Home » Blog » Archives for stings

Why do my bees turn nasty when I kill them?

The short answer is that I, too, would turn nasty if you were trying to kill me.

The longer answer is that when you do something that threatens your bees, alarm pheromone is emitted into the air by the endangered bees as they attempt to sting you. The pheromone, which is a mixture of highly volatile chemical compounds, disperses quickly and alerts other bees in the colony that danger is near. In response, guard bees will arrive on the scene to fend off the attacker (you) by head-butting, chasing, and stinging.

A sting in winter

The pain began slowly but rose to a searing crescendo. The heat was furious, like someone holding a flame to my thumb. I knew what it was of course. I’d felt it a hundred times before.

It was cold outside—mid 20s with a light dusting of snow. I had decided to slip some hard candy into each of the hives because it was too cold to move frames around. I was wearing a heavy jacket and a pair of winter gloves with elastic around the wrists.

The job went quickly and only two or three bees escaped to die in the snow. I was finished and walking toward home when the pain hit.

Now, here’s the problem. I come from a family of researchers, doctors, and dentists—all of whom taught me that science can supply the answers to nearly all questions. I firmly believe that if you are armed with a solid background in chemistry, physics, and biology you should be able to explain most phenomena. But much to my dismay, the whole system breaks down when you’re talking bees.

You see, there was no bee on my glove, but I could hear her. When I pulled off the glove, I found the stinger planted firmly in the tip of my thumb and I could still hear her. I knew she couldn’t be inside the glove, but I turned it inside out anyway. And there she was—squished against the fabric, nearly dead but looking mighty proud.

But the glove was snug and the elastic was tight. For the life of me I can’t see how she dug under the elastic, squirmed along my hand, and tunneled the length of my thumb before burying her stinger in the very tip. There was just no room for all that nonsense.

I put the glove back on and stood in the snow conducting scientific inquiry. I scrooched my wrist all around trying to see if I could make a gap in the elastic large enough for a bee. No chance. I inspected it for holes, split seams, or other points of entry. No chance. I even went back to the hive as if the answer might be written there but, of course, no chance.

So I conclude what I always do when the bees pull one over on me—simply that you’ve got to love ‘em.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

Related Posts:

A bee in the bra (December 2010)

 

Bee suit-related stress syndrome: why they drive me mad

I have real issues with bee suits. Last year, I wrote a post about why (supposedly) they are white. I did not say the need for white suits is a myth, even though I wanted to. I forgo calling something a myth unless there’s scientific evidence to support me, but regarding bee suit color I can find nothing.

So for the moment I’m going to segue from the realm of science in the province of opinion. I firmly believe the color of your clothes makes not one scintilla of difference in the behavior of bees. The idea that dark clothes makes bees think you are a (pick one or more) bear, skunk, raccoon, dog, opossum, wolf, or insectivorous bird is ridiculous. Bees are not stupid. Bees know we are living things by our breath. If you really want to see bees get riled up, open a busy hive and blow on them. Ohmygod. No matter what color you are wearing, they will fire out of the hive like they came from a Gatling gun.

But we humans, thinking we are ever so brilliant, run around in these ridiculous white suits thinking we’re pulling one over on the bees. Believe me, the bees find this amusing.

I, for one, look perfectly ridiculous in my so-called white suit, which is hardly white but stained with 15 colors of propolis and 25 shades of pollen. None of it comes out, no matter how often I wash it. And the more I wash it, the softer it gets, until I may as well not bother because the bees can sting right through it.

Recently, a few companies starting making colored bee suits, but they come in pastel shades of pink, yellow, purple, and blue. I suppose these colors are deemed light enough to “fool” the bees. But even these are no match for propolis, which is dark and brown and sticky and waterproof.

So for my next bee suit I’m going to buy dark brown or black coveralls. They will have lots of pockets, no zip-fly in the front (remind me why I need this?) . . . and they will fit.

Since I’ve never been able to find a suit that worked for me, I finally bought the jacket and pants separately. The pants I ordered in the smallest size the company made. These are pants that my adult daughter and I can share–I can get in one leg while she gets in the other. I’m not kidding. If I wear these pants (by myself) the crotch comes to a place just below my knees, so I can walk only with mincing baby steps or risk falling on my face.

While I’m thinking of it, why do zipped hoods collapse against your face? Why are hive tool pockets so short the hive tools fall out? Why do suits not have a hanging thingy on the inside where a normal jacket has one? Why is the elastic around the wrist so tight and the elastic around the ankles so loose? Why haven’t bee suit makers heard of female beekeepers?

I used to fantasize about the perfect bee suit, now just the thought of something barely serviceable gives me palpitations. Dream on.

Rusty

You are a stranger to your bees

Last year a beekeeper told me that his bees were getting used to him. He said that as the summer progressed they had “accepted” him as their keeper and they “realized” he was only trying to help. Furthermore, he claimed they became more docile every time he opened the hive.

This is a heartwarming story. It is also totally ridiculous. Although bees are heavy into consensus-building, they do not normally include the welfare of humans in their agenda. And even if an individual bee perceived a human as a non-threatening organism, that bee is only going to live four weeks or so. By the time the beekeeper re-opens the hive he is faced with a completely different cohort. These bees have never seen the beekeeper before—and I doubt they leave messages for each other taped to the refrigerator.

A colony of bees varies in its aggressiveness depending on a number of factors. Colonies that have gone queenless, have been pestered by animals, or are exposed to high levels of noise may be skittish and temperamental. Colonies at the end of winter, in the midst of a nectar flow, or in the act of swarming may seem unnaturally calm. These fluctuations in behavior can be helpful clues as to what is taking place inside the hive.

My point here is that a good beekeeper is constantly assessing clues to colony health and making decisions based on the information he has. Changing temperament is a clue to things that are happening within the colony. A good beekeeper should make use of this information instead of deluding himself into thinking he has become one with his bees.

Of course, that said, this past weekend I delivered a nuc of bees to a friend. In the course of inspecting the hives, her bees stung me . . . and my bees walked across my hands as if we were pals (which, perhaps, we were!) Soooo, what is going on here?

Rusty